


A Path So Twisted

by MissEllaVation



Category: U2 (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27357415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissEllaVation/pseuds/MissEllaVation
Summary: This tale finds our road-weary boys between shows on the third leg of the (original) Joshua Tree tour. Some things happen.
Relationships: Bono/The Edge (U2)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	A Path So Twisted

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I just felt like writing about the Joshua Tree era, and I thought it would be fun to stick the guys in a very basic American city—one I have passed through myself, albeit briefly. If you’re gonna have angst, you might as well have it in the part of New York State that looks and sounds like the midwest.
> 
> The title and the sub-headings are taken from the song [“Pissing In A River,”](https://youtu.be/XhDJZm_HyXY) by Patti Smith. I urge everyone to listen to it. As Fictional Edge says, it's a raw, powerful rendering of heartbreak.
> 
> [The Pink](http://www.dailypublic.com/articles/02052018/spotlight-pink) is a real place. I have no idea where the newly-minted Biggest Band In The World would really have gone in Buffalo, but fic is called fic for a reason. 
> 
> Amazingly, [there is a video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YWKWD9jDZNU&t=749s) of the concert U2 played in Syracuse right after the events of this little story. Go to 12:15 to fully comprehend my prologue. :)
> 
> And, okay, look: it’s not like I wanted to cop out of having them do the deed. It’s just that my own private timeline will not allow them to really get going for a couple more years. Extricating Bono from Edge’s room was a bit difficult, and I hope my solution isn’t too boilerplate and dumb. Bono HAD TO WEASEL OUT, okay?
> 
> The delightful phrase “puked me ring” is courtesy of Irish author Roddy Doyle.
> 
> The Edge is beautiful, regardless of what he thinks some college girl thinks about him.
> 
> Finally, I am posting this on Monday night, November 2, 2020. If you're an American of voting age, please vote.

**Syracuse, New York, October 1987. On tour forever.**

I watch the blurred world with one eye, while the other eye fixes inward on a map of firing neurons, like the pathway of lights that leads to the airplane exit (white, then red), or like an old-fashioned telephone switchboard where operators put plugs in and pull them out: on/off, in/out. My fingers follow the electronic path. My outer eye barely glances at them.

I’m in complete control. Having tamed the exuberant burst of noise that is the solo of “Trip Through Your Wires,” I swagger toward the front of the stage, pull up the whammy bar, then silence the strings with the subtlest pressure of my hand, while you bat your lashes at me like a schoolgirl.

But when you turn away, all my bravado goes with you. It’s lost somewhere in the damp hair gathered at your neck, in the big jacket you slip off like a striptease artist, in the sling on your poor left arm, in the nineteenth-century pinstripe trousers swaddling your arse. Here is my microphone, and now I must sing some harmonies.

**Pissing in a river**

We had a day of blank, post-gig nothingness in Buffalo before we had to move on to Syracuse. I still marvel sometimes at how big this country is—New York State on its own is bigger than England, and is stippled with down-at-the-heels cities that are in some ways comparable to Leeds or Wolverhampton. My plan was to avoid dealing with Buffalo altogether, and to spend that extra night in my hotel room, listening to music if I couldn’t sleep. 

I never travel far without a little Patti Smith. I take comfort in knowing that she could find poetry in these stark, dreary places, just as she found it in her own hometown in New Jersey. And she’s a reliable antidote to the male rock’n’roll ego. Where the men like to dress up and play God (present company excepted, obviously), Patti faces you unadorned—tough, but somehow without guile. A woman unlike any I have known, just telling it like it is.

God, how this song hurts me. Once you get past the title, it’s the most honest accounting of heartbreak I’ve ever heard. Her voice is so direct and raw, a rusty nail to the heart, while the men in her band provide the banshee wails. _Come BACK, come BACK!_

I think I’ve figured out the title, “Pissing In A River.” It’s Patti’s way of saying she knows she’s just a drop in the ocean. Or in this case, a river. Just one drop in the river of people who love that guy, whoever he is. Just a little bit of piss in that big wide river, swept away easily by the current.

**Voices, voices, beckoning sea**

You persuaded me to go out. I had almost drifted off, listening to Patti and watching PBS at the same time—a wildlife documentary of the sort you could watch with your children. None of that “nature red in tooth and claw” stuff, just adorable baby animals. Fox kits emerging from their den in springtime, so young that their eyes still carried a bluish cast. The bravest one popped out, lifted his pointy little snout into the breeze. He looked just like you, Bono, prowling and sniffing hopefully around my room.

“Come on, Edge. Let’s get out of here.”

“No. Go ask Adam.”

“Can’t find him. He’s not in his room."

"Did you check the—"

"Nor is he in the bar."

“Then go ask Larry.”

“Larry told me to—and I quote—‘feck off; I’m havin’ a night in.’”

“I see. So if I told you to ‘feck off,’ would you let _me_ have a night in?”

“Oh come on, The Edge. Come on.” You tugged my wrist with your good hand. “Come on, best mate, bosom buddy, boon companion—”

“What about Paul? Dermot? The new guy, Sean?

“No, because Paul sometimes watches me with that almost paternal glare, and the crew can be a bit deferential, and frankly they scare the women away, and—”

“Jaysis, if you would just shut your face.”

“I can do that.”

So once again I found myself fully dressed, groomed (sort of) and cruising through the cold streets of Buffalo—the type of town that can make a person feel nostalgic for Toronto, or even for Cleveland. We were driven through empty streets of low brick buildings, past a few bars, a couple of restaurants that had already been closed for hours. Then the shuttered appliance shops, dusty little boutiques in whose windows even the mannequins looked depressed. I began to feel desperate for neon lights and a strong drink. 

You nudged me and offered me your left hand. 

“You're cold,” I mumbled.

“Sorry. I know this sounds strange, but when my hand is cold, my shoulder aches more. It’s like the cold travels up my arm.”

It had been a few weeks since you’d fucked your shoulder up. You were still wearing a sling. I said nothing, but took your hand between both of mine. It didn’t mean anything. You slumped against me.

“Jesus, Bono, if you’re in pain, you should stay home.”

“Home?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Perish the thought. Did you expect me to crawl into bed with you and watch baby animal documentaries?”

I could think of many worse ways to spend a night in Buffalo, but I didn’t say so. 

The car pulled up in front of a place called The Pink—some fan had clued you in—which was an old stone house painted purple (not pink), with green painted flames shooting up from its foundation. Muffled music and a few neon beer signs in the window conspired to raise my spirits.

We were dressed down, in denim, like any other young people knocking about in the American night, but everyone knew we were in town. We were about to unleash pandemonium in this little dive. I wanted it as much as I dreaded it: the pandemonium, the chaos, the “it.” It, and you. It and you were of course inextricably linked. I took a deep breath. You walked ahead of me. (I will follow.) As ever.

**Don’t turn your back now; I’m talking to you**

After about thirty minutes of shaking hands, signing cocktail napkins, and talking myself hoarse, I fled to a battered leather chair in a shadowy corner. Pulled my hat down over my eyes and took a first sip of my fair-to-middling American beer. It tasted like a mini-holiday from human interaction. When I glanced up again, I saw a ripple in the crowd. A few people screamed, but they tried to do it quietly. It was funny to watch. I set my beer on a table in the nick of time as you threw yourself into my lap. 

“Hello, darling,” you said. You were being funny.

“Hi, sweetheart,” I said. I was being serious.

You wriggled around a bit, trying to get comfortable. “The Edge’s thighs are quite bony,” you explained to everyone in earshot.

“Wish I could say the same for yours,” I lied. I dug my fingers into the arms of the chair, to stop myself from grabbing you around the waist. To keep myself from pulling you down hard against me.

Our comedy act held the onlookers enthralled, until some yobbo yelled, “Kiss him!” which sent a trill of feminine laughter winging toward the ceiling.

Of course you had to please the crowd, so you put your good arm around my neck and leaned in close. I’m pretty sure I shut my eyes. I don’t _think_ I opened my mouth. You pecked me on the cheek, and let the tip of your nose rest there, under my eye, just a beat too long. I’ve often thought your nose might be sentient. But it wasn’t much of a kiss. Not like the furtive, guilty ones we’ve been exchanging, in dark and lonely moments, almost ever since the world began. Imagine everyone’s surprise if it was! Imagine the instamatics clicking away!

You jumped up, and were drawn instantly into a conversation with a small group of attractive-for-Buffalo people. I felt your absence. Made some minor adjustments to my jacket, crossed my legs. Finished my beer and took some fawning questions from the members of a local bar-band, which recalled me to the fact that I was in a bar, and that I could get a little more of this truly average but functional American beer any time I wanted. 

“Pardon me, lads.”

“Okay, Edge. Great to meet you, Edge.” All grins, the bar-band members patted my arms and shoulders as I stood up and walked away. It’s a strange feeling, adulation. My instinct as a polite person is to return it in kind, but I’ve learned that you just can’t, or you will wear yourself out. You have to be a little bit imperious, a little bit of a snot.

The bartender was a guy around my age with a little purple streak in his otherwise ordinary brown hair. (To match the building?) To his credit, he poured my beer with the finesse of a Dublin publican. “You guys were smart to come here,” he said. “Would’ve been even crazier at the place down the block, where all the jocks hang out.”

Jocks? Scottish people? “Oh, you mean _athletes._ ”

“Ha, they wish. _Ex-_ athletes. Loud fat guys. You know. Assholes.”

I laughed. 

“People here wanna look cool, so they’ll settle down after a while and pretty much let you be.”

“Good to know.”

“Edge.”

Ah, there you were again, this time in the company of two young ladies. Of course. One was tall, red-haired and just a teaspoon shy of gorgeous, the other was small, brunette and nice-looking enough. You made introductions. I didn’t catch any names. I was too acutely aware of you to really register much else. This doesn’t _always_ happen, but it happens often enough. Maybe if you hadn’t leaned on me in the car, maybe if you hadn’t sat in my lap. If you hadn’t kissed me. If you were someone else. If you weren’t you.

“Perk up, Edge. Look at these two shining examples of American womanhood.”

I shook my head, but I would play along. “Ladies, this guy might _look_ like he just fell off a freight train full of turnips and moonshine, but he is in fact Bono, of the famous pop band U2.”

“Oh we _know_ that.” The taller girl made up for her lightning-fast wit by leaning toward me provocatively. “Why are you called The Edge?”

“I could tell you why. But then I’d have to kill you.”

“Oh, come on, Edge.” You took my chin in your good hand and turned my face this way and that. “Look at that profile. Amazing, right? Exquisite. It’s all ‘edge’ and not much else.”

“Gosh, thanks.”

“It was meant to be a compliment!”

The girls looked from one of us to the other. Your fingers lingered warmly on my chin, then dropped away. The red-haired girl let out a deep, semi-erotic laugh. The brown-haired one was utterly starstruck by you—wordless and lost. I felt for her.

Red Hair grabbed your good hand. She was all silver rings and purple nails. “Dance with me, Bono?”

“Oh no, I don’t think—” You glanced at me, gestured at your shoulder.

“Please? Just for a minute. One song. I swear I won’t let anyone bump into you.”

A gentleman through and through, you nodded, and let the girl lead you to the tiny square that passed for a dance floor. You were moderately drunk; I could tell by the way your knees bent, by the sway of your arse.

We were both watching you, the brown-haired girl and I. I sensed her deflating a bit at my side. I knew how she felt—that ache in the throat that’s so often the first physical manifestation of heartbreak. I was feeling it a bit myself.

“I don’t know how she _always_ manages…But of course she _would_.” The girl’s big blue eyes—quite pretty, actually—searched my face, trying to make me into some sort of acceptable consolation prize.

“Everyone has a friend like that,” I said. “Anyway, Bono can’t say no to people. He’s just being nice. Don’t take it on board.”

“You’re married, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I have two little daughters, too.” 

She gaped. “You’re only, like, five years older than me! I’ve had like _one_ boyfriend.”

“You’re in college?”

“Yeah.”

“See, that’s good. Good for you. We get married too young in Ireland. But you can do whatever you want with your life. Have a million boyfriends.”

She continued to study my face. I could picture her a few hours from now, sprawled in her pajamas across her demi-virginal bed, writing in her diary. _Met U2’s The Edge. He is not as cute as Bono but he is very sensible._

“Come on.” I gave her a little nudge toward the dance floor.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Let’s go show our friends some _real_ moves.”

**What about it, I never doubted you**

“We have to travel tomorrow.” 

I yelled this into your ear over The Cure’s “Hot Hot Hot,” with which you were attempting—unwisely between gigs—to sing along.

_“Dancing screaming itching stealing sneezing feeling—”_

“Those aren’t quite the right words.”

“What?”

“We’re _traveling_ tomorrow. Early. Check-in. Soundcheck. Gig. The adoration of thousands? You might want to get some sleep.”

“Sleep. Sleep is for the weak.”

You were pretending to be more drunk than you really were—a good strategy for allowing me to extricate you from the crowd without either of us looking rude. I maneuvered you into the back seat of the car. And God bless these drivers, happy to sit by the curb with coffee and a newspaper. I’ve learned not to ask them about their lives, as they do not ask about ours.

Once we pulled away from the hot little bar you became subdued, enough to be still and to lean back against the upholstery with your eyes closed. You were going to be a tiny bit sorry in the morning, but you’d be fine by soundcheck. You always are.

In the hotel, I tried to steer you through the hallway, not feeling a hundred percent sober myself. Why must these places always be so poorly lit, and have such nausea-inducing carpeting? I fumbled with the keycard while you leaned against the wall, still dealing with The Cure.

_“Hey hey hey, but I like it when that lightning comes…”_

“This is _my_ room, B. Yours is over there.”

 _“Yes I like it a lot…”_ You put your heavy head on my shoulder. “Aw Edge, I don’t wanna be alone. Let’s watch a wildlife documentary.”

“I’m not sure there are any on at this hour.” 

“CNN is always on.”

“You can watch CNN in _your_ room.”

But I already knew what was going to happen. You were going to follow me, and you were going to try, in your own weird way, to seduce me. To see how far you could get me to go. 

Around this time last year, on a similarly cold night, we were drunk in Dublin, huddled on a bench near the Liffey like a couple of street people. You’d put your head in my lap and said—you’d said some things. _I would Edge, if you wanted me to._

I had a few very good reasons to keep you in check. Our marriages, obviously. The band, for fuck’s sake. But also, I knew that your need for love superseded all else, and I knew that your need for love could drive you to do some unintentionally hurtful things. Such as (but not limited to) making your best friend fall in love with you, when your _own_ feelings were probably only momentary and had no specific target. Probably.

Nevertheless, I let you stumble into my room. I let the door swing shut behind you. You slipped your jacket off and dropped it on a chair, and stood there in your half-buttoned shirt and the jeans that held your compact but generous little body so snugly.

“Sit down, Bono.”

You sat on the edge of the bed.

“Not there. I mean—okay, fine.”

I don’t desire men. I’m not sure I would even know what to do with a man. The territory beyond hugs and kisses is filled with murky acts I’m not sure I could bring myself to attempt. 

And yet.

You made yourself at home on my bed, right on top of the covers. Your hair was dark against the pillowcase, because of course you have to be a fucking cliché from a Mills and Boon romance. I swear you do these things intentionally. Your cheeks, lips, and even your eyelids were a little rosy. There really is nothing quite so compelling as the construction of your face. It’s not quite right. Simultaneously too rough and too delicate. I have been studying the evolution of your nose for ten years. I don’t understand anything. Jesus.

I stalled for time, taking off my jacket, my hat. Even bothering to put them away neatly in the closet. But I wanted so much to touch you. So much. As if the central heating had been switched on inside me, and was now finding its way into my limbs, into my fingers. And elsewhere. My inner eye failed me; both eyes were outer eyes. Both fixed on you. 

I try so hard, Bono, not to let these moments happen. You don’t even know. Or maybe you do.

I leaned down and gave your good shoulder a little shake. “Bono, you’re falling asleep. Go back to your room now.”

You opened your eyes and raised your hand to my face. Sleepy smile. Blunt little fingertips warm on my jaw. “Pretty Edge, with your long edgy chin. Kiss me.”

“Bono…”

“Edge. I…” Your eyes searched mine. Not that drunk after all. A little? A lot. I couldn’t tell. You lifted your chin. Your throat, your neck was so long. Just a bit too much; every sinew and artery in sharp relief. Somehow my hand was gripping your shirt collar, tugging it away from your body. To see more of you. I hadn’t meant to do that. I would never do that.

Your lips were warm, a little dry. Your breath was a little beery. I thought you’d shove me away, laugh, get up and leave. Instead you put your hand on the back of my neck. Hard. You opened your mouth. You pulled me off balance. And suddenly I was beside you on the bed, and then, how? Underneath you. Your shirt was open, hanging like a thin veil on either side of my face. Warm scent of your skin, the underside of your neck, your chest, the dark hair trailing away to the button on your jeans. I craned to see more, but you were kissing me, we were kissing, mouths wide open. Who was it breathing so frantically—you or me? But all of your weight was on your right arm, and you were beginning to tremble. 

I heard myself gasp, “Here!” A meaningless word, but you understood and allowed yourself to sink down on me, all your hard and soft weight, off a little to one side out of respect for your left arm. Even off-center, the press of your hips was unmistakable, and I was sure you had drained all my blood and replaced it with a heady brew of pleasure, desperation, and fear. 

“Edge. My Edge.” You took my free hand and placed it on your chest, on your warm skin, where your heart thrummed away just under the surface. I took this as permission to let it roam further, down your side, around to your broad, beautiful back, then down to the spot just above your arse, where a mist of sweat had gathered. Your skin was—Christ, there is no good word. Velvet is stupid. A kid glove? Stupid. Your skin was divine under my fingers, and you were uncharted territory, this whole situation was uncharted, unmapped, I had no idea where we were going, and you were breathing so hard into my ear, against my neck.

“Edge.”

“Sweetheart.” That was the word that came out of me, for the second time in one night.

“Edge, wait a minute. I’m not feeling so well.”

“You feel fucking great.”

“No, I mean—” You swatted my hand. I looked up at your face. All the rosiness had drained away. 

So the night was to end like this. “Let me help you up,” I muttered, while my body screamed in outrage.

“I’m so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, Edge. I think it’s the painkillers. They don’t mix with beer.”

“Funny, they never bothered you before.” I hadn’t meant to sound so angry.

“You weren’t there when they _did_ bother me.” You were on your feet now, and really starting to look miserable. I felt my own gut clench in sympathy. 

“Let me help you.”

“No. I’m gonna—I’m not gonna puke in front of you.” You held your shirt closed, but left your shoes and jacket behind. Only one working hand for the door handle. 

“Bono, come on. You’ve puked in front of me a hundred times.”

“But not—it’s different now.” You bolted out the door, letting it slam behind you.

 _It’s different now._ Is it? I stood stranded in the middle of the room, in a blur of rumpled clothes and bedding, my head and my cock throbbing. I wondered if I should follow you. (I will follow.) But not this time, you heartless little bastard. I won't be holding your hair. I won't have to clean up after you. Puke yourself into oblivion.

**Every move I made I move to you,  
** **And I came like a magnet for you now.**

Oh God. Fuck. Get your voice out of my head, Patti.

**Should I go the length of a river?**

On the way to Syracuse, like heroes from a Greek myth. You’re sitting too close to me but no one thinks anything of it. Some days you choose to lean on Adam, but if he misses your warm, earthy presence today, he isn’t saying so. The bus rattles, hums, hits a pothole and bounces on its springs.

“Are you okay, Edge?” Your voice is hurtfully tender. “Where’s the headache today?” 

“Well...it starts under my right eye and kind of goes up into the bridge of my nose.”

“Oh. Mine is just right in my forehead. Dead-center.” You yawn. “Puked me ring last night.”

Good. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Shite.”

Good. “Lean on me.”

“I’m already leaning.”

“So you are.”

I enjoy the weight of your head on my shoulder. You could be my wife, one of my babies. But you aren’t, and by rights I should be kicking your arse up and down the highway. Don’t worry, I won’t. Ever. Lean on me forever, it’s fine. It’s part of my job as your Edge.

I watch the wide corridor of the New York State Thruway unscrolling past the windows. A straight, featureless road, but the October trees are brave against the gray sky. I try to make a poem out of the exit signs.

_Bushville, Batavia._   
_Henrietta, Victor. (A posh couple, bushwhacking in mysterious Batavia.)_   
_Montezuma National Wildlife Refuge. (All refuge, no revenge.)_   
_Weedsport. (Is it Weed’s Port or Weed Sport?)_   
_Jordan. (I looked over Jordan, what did I see, coming for to carry me home?)_   
_Memphis. (If you love somebody enough, you’ll follow wherever they go. That’s how I got to Memphis.)_

In a few minutes we’ll be in Syracuse, and we won’t speak at all about last night. Until next time.

“Bono?”

You let out a little snore, like a baby buzzsaw. Sleep well, little bastard. You’re my best friend. I love you.


End file.
